I Can Remember Much Forgetfulness.

The Form Of My Poem Rises Out Of A Past That So Overwhelms The Present With Its Worth And Vision That I'm At A Loss To Explain My Delusion That There Exist Any Real Links Between That Past And A Future Worthy Of It.

The Fact That The Bridge Contains Folk Lore And Other Material Suitable To The Epic Form Need Not Therefore Prove Its Failure As A Long Lyric Poem, With Interrelated Sections.

There Are Several More Careers More Engaging To Follow Than That Of Poetry. But The Circumstances Of One's Birth, The Conduct Of One's Parents, The Current Economic Structure Of Society, And A Thousand Other Local Factors Have As Much Or More To Say About Successions To Such Occupations, The Naive Volitions Of The Poet To The Contrary.

One Must Be Drenched In Words, Literally Soaked In Them, To Have The Right Ones Form Themselves Into The Proper Pattern At The Right Moment.

And I Have Been Able To Give Freedom And Life Which Was Acknowledged In The Ecstasy Of Walking Hand In Hand Across The Most Beautiful Bridge Of The World, The Cables Enclosing Us And Pulling Us Upward In Such A Dance As I Have Never Walked And Never Can Walk With Another.